


All We Need is Time

by supermarine



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-World War II, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-18 03:48:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11866047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supermarine/pseuds/supermarine
Summary: Twenty years after the war, Tommy returns to France where he chances upon a green-eyed ghost from his past.





	1. The Accident

**Author's Note:**

> After watching Dunkirk for the third time, I have decided to adopt Gibson. Wait, he's dead? NOT ON MY WATCH.
> 
> Please excuse any historical inaccuracies and grammatical errors. I'm not great with tenses. I've taken the liberty to develop backstories and names (especially for Gibson), so this first chapter is fairly lengthy. 
> 
> Recommended listening: Fyfe, London Grammar are big inspirations for this story. Title from Fyfe's All We Need.

26th of March, 1960.

It was the wettest of wet Parisian afternoons. The hazy morning sunlight that had been filtering through the shutters of his hotel windows was nowhere to be seen, and Tommy inwardly cursed himself for leaving his umbrella behind. The rain had come down so suddenly and heavily that clumsy, oily puddles were forming at a steady pace among the cobbles in the Montmartre district of Paris’s 18th Arrondissement.

Ten minutes ago he descended the stone steps leading up to La Basilique du Sacré Cœur, having lazily wandered up to glimpse the smooth pale domes and the teal-green statues that flanked the entrance. He had stopped short of going in however, not wanting to meander among the thin crowd of aimless tourists and pious, solemn locals. He spent a few minutes taking in Paris from the hilltop, mostly through the viewfinder of his worn Leica. The scenery was already dampened with shadows a shade of grey that could only be brought about by looming rain clouds. He still took a few photos anyway, more for home than for himself.   

Now he dodged puddles and frantic bicycles on Rue Saint-Vincent, aiming for the cosy but empty- looking café near the end of the street. Droplets of rain on his glasses hindered his vision, and he struggled to protect his Leica from the downpour with his oversized jacket. A distant-sounding shout and the screech of brakes failed to catch his attention, and Tommy proceeded to jog unceremoniously onto an oncoming bicycle.

“Fuck!” he cursed, as he fell backwards onto a puddle. He could feel water seeping through his socks and up his trouser leg as he scrabbled to shield his camera from the rain. “Watch where you’re going you bloody fool!”

Silence greeted the retort. The cyclist had not fallen off his bike, but somehow he was still there, paralysed and mute, as if suddenly struck by lightning. Disorientated and a little stunned, Tommy avoided his gaze and made an effort to pick himself back up; his efforts slowed by the slippery nature of the cobbles. Thinking to berate the cyclist once more, he straightened up while wiping his glasses against the still-dry insides of his jacket before freezing when their eyes met.

_Green eyes, desperate and pleading. Unruly hair. Drowning, then living again. A sinking bullet-ridden boat._

_June 1940. Dunkirk._

Memories he had chopped up and buried so neatly over days, months and years broke through the sandbanks of his mind like a raging tidal wave. They filled his lungs and constricted his chest – in that agonising moment every breath was a struggle.

The cyclist – no, Gibson – seemed to be in the same predicament. His eyes roamed every inch of Tommy’s face. The Frenchman had gotten off his bike and taken a tentative step closer to him, his face a mixture of disbelief and muted bewilderment. Paris seemed to slow to a stop around them, as if they were the only actors of a silent movie with the rain as the audience.

Neither of them moved or breathed. The rain was producing small tidal pools around their feet. They were staring, as if searching for answers in each other’s faces. Gibson seemed to be calculating and weighing everything up in his head, like his thoughts were at war with each other – as he’d looked like he’d always done during the week Tommy had known him twenty years ago. His stare made Tommy avert his gaze towards his shoes, as his brain chose the perfect time to turn into mush.

Seconds ticked pass. In the corner of his eyes he could see Gibson tightly grip the handlebars of his bike and clamber on top of it, decision apparently made. Heart freezing, Tommy looked up just as the Frenchman started to slowly pedal off, his visage hard and solemn.

 _No,_ his heart whimpered. _Stop._

His brain spluttered back to life, like starting up the engine of a boat. Tommy whipped around, forcefully pushed the wet hair out of his face and felt the emotion of twenty years of memories shout with him.

“Gibson!”

In the building distance, the Frenchman’s back stiffened, his jacket wet and whipping around him in the wind. Tommy could not see his face, but he could imagine a frown marring his features at the sound of a name he would’ve been all too happy to shed, a name he probably thought he’d heard the last of. Tommy could see that he had slowed down, but the pedals continued to move as Gibson’s legs betrayed his brain.

It was a battle of thought and sense between the past and the present, and maybe even the future. Tommy knew which had already triumphed for him. He raised his voice again, louder this time with a hint of desperation.

“Wait, don’t leave!”

If the Englishman sounded pitiful, he didn’t care. In September Tommy would turn forty, but that doesn’t mean he was any wiser, he thought. Not that wisdom would have mattered much to him in that particular moment anyway. He wondered if Gibson had even heard him, as the rain had almost completely shrouded the receding silhouette of the taller man. Before long, Gibson had fully vanished into the rain and into the drowning depths of Paris. It was as if the Channel had opened up suddenly in the middle of Montmartre and swallowed him whole.

The wet Parisian air was like lead, and Tommy was swimming in it. He even counted to thirty as he stood alone and waiting – _for, what?_ A snide voice in him opined – drenched and feeling like a foolish child. He wondered whether everything that had just happened was a dream, and that Gibson was a ghost that continued to taunt him even across the Channel.  Discouraged, Tommy forced himself to breathe deeply to calm the spreading chill in his heart and fought a sudden inexplicable urge to weep. He gathered his bearings as much as he could and remembered the café, as the rain had obviously no plans on letting up.

He had not walked more than a few minutes in a daze before a hand pierced through the gloom and touched his shoulder.

 

-

 

Gibson pulled him onto the back of his bicycle before Tommy could even speak. Wordless, he’d given Tommy the briefest of looks before pedalling off, winding quickly through the streets. The roads and buildings turned into a rain-soaked blur. Clumsily holding onto the back of the bicycle, Tommy closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the back of Gibson’s wet jacket, occasionally bumping his head against the other’s back with little grace as the bike glided and snaked through potholes, puddles and cobbles.

Before long, they came to a slippery stop in front of terraced apartments. The Frenchman marched a soaked and shivering Tommy through the iron front gate, before leading the way up the stairs onto the third and topmost floor of the building. He herded Tommy into a small but cosy flat, and Tommy felt a pang of embarrassment and disappointment at the amount of water they’ve brought in with them. They were instantly greeted by a handsome grey tabby that meowed loudly at Gibson, but kept a sullen distance as water pooled around the soaked men.   

As Tommy stood awkwardly in the living room, Gibson silently flitted through the other rooms, before emerging with dry clothes and a towel for Tommy and pointed his gaze towards a small door that Tommy assumed was the bathroom. In that time he had promptly placed a kettle on the boil and set some mugs on the counter.

After a few minutes, the Englishman emerged from the bathroom with a sigh, his glasses dry and head a little clearer. He’d taken the time to carefully wipe his beloved Leica dry as well, and he briefly glimpsed amusement in Gibson’s eyes when he walked out with the camera in his hands. The Frenchman was curled up on the end of one of the couches under a worn-looking throw, palms hugging a steaming mug of tea. The tabby was now nestled on his lap, purring softly through half-lidded eyes.

Tommy felt his throat constrict again at the sight of him. He made himself sit down on the other end of the couch and noted the mug of tea for him on the coffee table.

“Thanks.”

Gibson nodded, his gaze not quite meeting Tommy’s.

The slight action stoked an emotion in Tommy that snowballed into an irrational anger. His nostrils flared and he glared at the Frenchman, who was still cradling his mug pensively with his head inclined.  

“Why don’t you say something?” He quietly demanded, eyes flashing. He regretted the question as soon as it left him, realising that he had echoed the same words Alex had spat at Gibson with in the doomed trawler in Dunkirk. Tommy squeezed his eyes shut at the memory of it.

Moments pass before Gibson finally spoke. “Sorry,” he said, his voice soft and accented.

Tommy opened his eyes, and he found that the Frenchman was looking at him now, tea forgotten. He gazed back in earnest, taking in the emerging grey strands of hair near Gibson’s temple. His hair was slightly longer, the ends curling softly just before the bottom of his nape. Not much else has changed other than that. His face was a bit more lined and tired-looking, but his eyes were the same stormy green, like the colour of the Thames on a grim, wind-swept day.

Feeling his anger dissipate, he sipped some tea to moisten his throat, feeling the hot brew warm his body. Tommy smiled weakly in apology. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

The Frenchman nodded and appeared to understand, so Tommy pressed on cautiously, his heart thudding nervously in his chest. “Would you like to talk?”

The man he knew only as Gibson smiled.

 

-

 

In half an hour, Tommy found out more about the man sitting across from him than in the seven days in Dunkirk where their lives first became entangled.

Julien, formerly Gibson to Tommy, quietly described how he had nearly drowned in the sinking trawler. Caught on a rope, he had struggled in panic while waiting for the last of his breath to leave him, before suddenly remembering the combat knife attached to his belt. He emerged from the boat to a hellish picture of a sea in flames and soldiers screaming. Without a life jacket, he spent the last of his energy half-drowning, half-swimming away from the carnage. Before long a Little Ship hauled him aboard choking and gasping, but alive.

The experience had not left him unscathed. His lungs were full with sea water, which rapidly progressed to a dreadful bout of pneumonia. Taken to a military hospital at Dover, his body cycled between sleepless nights of delirious fever and days when he would cough so much until he vomited. He was kept there for just under two months, and by the time he’d left France had long since fallen.  

Julien’s eyes now had a distant faraway look. “That was when I met Sarah.” He said, voice softening.

Sarah was a nurse at the hospital who had gently coaxed him back from death’s door. Her mother was from Lyon, and she spoke a good smattering of French. She had taught Julien almost all of the English he knew now. Three weeks his discharge he’d proposed during a stroll along the White Cliffs, despite having next to nothing in terms of possessions. She had said yes with the gentlest of smiles.

For a while he stayed with Sarah at her modest apartment, and slowly improved his English before eventually finding work as a translator. Moments of joy were few and far in between, however. Since Paris was occupied, there was a long, seemingly unending period of melancholy as Julien’s mother was still at the capital, trapped within her own city. He had never met his father, who was one of the millions of fallen men at the Somme, during the Great War. Not long after his escape from Dunkirk, his brother David gave his life in the south of France, his body destined to wither away in an unmarked grave.  In the meantime, La France Libre, France’s government-in-exile, was mobilising whatever that had remained of the French army in London, as well as armies from far-flung colonies throughout the world.

The Frenchman paused, a wry smile forcing its way onto his lips. “What your friend had said to me on the boat – well, I did not understand it at the time – but I remembered some of it again later on and it was all true.”

Tommy could only shake his head, unable to find the right words. Finally, he responded. “We knew Dunkirk would fall. I don’t blame you for trying to do what many would’ve done.”

“Everyone I knew was dying or dead and all I could think of was running away. I didn’t want to end up like my father,” Julien muttered, his eyes downcast. “When I recovered, I was constantly plagued by it, by the shame.”

Tommy had to restrain himself from reaching out to touch Julien’s shoulder. Instead, he gave him a defiant glare, as if his gaze could burn away the other’s demons. “Shut up,” he retorted sharply. “You saved me. I wouldn’t be alive–”

The taller man waved him quiet and gave him a reassuring smile. “I know. You owe me.” he said, mirth apparent in his eyes. It earned him a small smirk and an eye-roll from Tommy.

As Tommy listened on, he learnt that Julien eventually re-enlisted in the Free French Army, a year after Dunkirk. He moved out of home and into their temporary barracks despite Sarah’s tearful objections, as he became increasingly restless and anxious. In 1944, he left the shores of Britain for Normandy. During the few weeks leading up to his deployment, Sarah had spoken not more than a few sentences to him. He doubted that there was even a proper goodbye. There was a chasm between them now, as wide as the Channel, and Julien had willingly let that happen, blind as he was to everything else other than his own anger at nobody but himself.

“I was at Normandy as well, 3rd Infantry Division.” Tommy said in a subdued tone as he fiddled with the corners of a pillow. A fleeting silence settled between them as the same feeling gripped them both; a kind of naked emotion that occupants of shared battlegrounds will know. It was a feeling that encompassed regret at having gone through the same twisted experience, and relief at having escaped hell alive.

Julien’s voice broke through the silence again, shaking Tommy out of his reverie. “I was wounded in Caen and given some leave to recover. I went back to Dover,” he continued evenly. “Sarah was gone. The neighbours said she had moved back to her hometown in the North. Back at the barracks there were a pile of letters and one of them contained the divorce papers.”

“I’m sorry.” Tommy said, his heart trembling.

The Frenchman nodded. “It was my fault,” he said simply. “After the war, I returned to Paris and continued working as a translator. I write too, sometimes.” This explained some of the furnishings then, as Tommy’s gaze was drawn to a beautiful typewriter sat on a sturdy wooden desk in a corner of the living room. There was also a bookshelf adjacent to it that contained various editions of French and English dictionaries and thesauruses. Tommy came to stand before the bookshelf, absent-mindedly thumbing through the spines of the books. He turned around to meet Julien’s gaze. “What do you write?” he asked, curiosity piqued.

Julien shrugged his shoulders shyly, his eyes twinkling. “Oh, nothing too exciting. Just short stories mostly. I am working on a novel at the moment.”

Tommy sat back down at the couch and was about to inquire more before his gaze suddenly fell on the clock. He had not realised it was already so late. The rain outside only seemed to have gotten heavier and the sky was already almost dark.  He walked over to his clothes and jacket that Julien had laid drying near a radiator and found that they were still damp.

“Shit.”

“Tommy,” Julien began softly, but the Englishman was too distracted to hear.

“I’m sorry Gib– uh, Julien,” He rambled, hooking his still-damp clothes over his arm. He made a frantic move to put his shoes on. “I didn’t realise it was so late. I’ve kept you for so long–”  

A sharp elbow nudged his side, and the Tommy whipped around embarrassed. Julien’s eyes grounded him to the spot, and he stopped fidgeting immediately.

“You can stay.” The Frenchman declared with an air of finality.

 

-

 

By eight, Julien had made dinner and poured them both a few glasses of wine. They sat through the meal in comfortable silence and listened to patter of rain against the windowpanes. Afterwards, they moved back to the couch with fresh mugs of tea in hand. The tabby, which the Frenchman calls Oli, was warming up to Tommy. It would occasionally snake between his legs and press its face up against his calves, begging to be petted. The wine must have loosened Julien’s tongue as well as his usually guarded expressions; he was chatting more intensely now, his smiles wide and laughter evident in his eyes whenever Tommy made a particularly sarcastic comment.

“I must’ve brought the bloody weather with me,” Tommy had exclaimed once, scowling, after they had taken another look at the rainy onslaught outside. Hearing a weird noise, he turned around to find Julien snorting, tea sloshing clumsily in his mug as he tried to contain his laughter.

Comfortably full, Tommy described his job as a photographer, and explained how his current task had brought him to Paris. His intentions were to stay for a week before returning to England.

“Just a week?” Julien enquired in a flat tone, his expression now serious.

Tommy nodded in answer before explaining further. “I have a daughter at home – Layla. She’s twelve.” He paused momentarily before continuing on, his voice neutral. “Her mother died during childbirth.”

If the Frenchman was taken aback he did not show it. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Tommy reassured. “Layla’s with my parents while I’m away. I’m sure she’s happy to get away from her father for a bit.”

“She has a beautiful name.”

They fell silent for a minute. The Englishman could sense another question hovering at the tip of the Frenchman’s tongue and waited for him to speak.

“Have you met anyone else since?” Julien finally asked, as if unravelling a tightly-bound knot in his chest.

“Yes. None could really hold a light to Hannah though.” Tommy replied honestly. She had been his childhood friend, someone who sometimes knew him better than himself. He tried to recall how she looked like then, but his memory was hazier than usual. It suddenly struck him that he had not thought about her for a long while, and Tommy was uncertain if he should rejoice or mourn.

He turned around to find Julien looking at him intently with his brows furrowed, as if deep in thought. Julien then stood up abruptly – to the startled indignation of Oli the cat – and announced that it was getting late. Tommy yawned as if in reply; it felt like the longest day he’s had in weeks.  

Tommy flat out refused Julien’s offer of his bed and glued himself to the couch despite the other’s pointed glares and exasperated sighs. The taller man retired to his room in mild annoyance, but not before Tommy had noticed that the corners of Julien’s mouth had curled upwards. The flat was unusually quiet now, as the rain had finally begun to slowly taper out. He could almost hear the rise and fall of Julien’s breathing through the door of his bedroom.

It was already eleven, but Tommy’s mind was restless and sleep eluded him. Sitting up in the dark, he observed Julien’s home again with a quiet intensity. For some reason, Tommy felt a strange need to weave the memory of this place deep into the bowels of his mind. He could not shake the inexplicable feeling of cautious hope that meeting Julien had brought, or the feeling that this tiny flat in Paris would bear witness to another turning point in his life.

A beautiful glass picture frame caught his eye. It was placed almost reverently on top of a wooden shelf. He crept over quietly, careful as to not make a sound on the wooden floorboards. The frame contained the yellowing photo of a young woman. Shoulder-length black hair surrounded a smiling dimpled face. She was carrying a giggling baby, chubby and cherub-like. From afar it looked as if they were looking out at Paris serenely through the windows framing the doors of the balcony. A vase of fresh white lilies stood like a sentry next to the photo. Tommy surmised who they were instantly; Julien possessed her smile and eyes. 

Tommy stumbled heavily back to the couch and burrowed himself among the pillows and throws, suddenly feeling claustrophobic. He could not bear to look at his surroundings any longer – the walls now suddenly seemed too close, the ceiling now too low. He willed himself to rest and closed his eyes, but every time he did a pair of green eyes stared back at him, darkness dripping from their irises.

 


	2. Recollection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left kudos and comments on the first chapter, I really appreciate it.

 

_Tommy is familiar with them now, the faceless dead that hover above him in his dreams. They are always faceless, as he never got to look back at them, never got to draw the breath to say their names before they were mowed down in seconds on the colourful streets of Dunkirk. He never forgets their names though and occasionally recalls a voice or two, and that is a consolation._

_Mick, Will, Teddy, James and Ollie crowd around him this time. They’re singing Happy Birthday with invisible mouths and sound somewhat inebriated. They’re back in Ypres, huddled within a deserted enemy bunker in a rare moment of reprieve. Faint explosions in the distance sound like firecrackers lit for celebration. They find a faulty flare and first tried sticking it into a ration tin of beans via a clumsily cut-up hole, before giving up and finally stabbing it through a lump of stale bread with a stingy slap of watery jam on top._

_He had never laughed so hard in his life, and is in tears from the effort it took to blow out the flare._

_When it’s done (with a bit of help from the rest), they cheered and slapped him on the back. Mick hands him some ‘tasteful’ pictures as a gift with an invisible wink._

_Tommy wipes away his tears with a khaki sleeve._

_He is now twenty years old._

 

-

 

27th of March, 1960.

Tommy rose from choppy slumber to the smell of fresh coffee and the warm glow of sunlight. Noticing a weight on his abdomen, he turned around blearily to see the unmistakable curled form of Oli the cat. Grasping for his glasses, he began to sit up, eliciting an annoyed meow from the tabby. His gaze slowly focused on a mussy-haired Julien, already working away quietly at his desk.

“Morning,” Tommy mumbled, rubbing his face.

The Frenchman smiled at him. “Morning,” he repeated back. “There’s coffee.”

Tommy returned his smile with a bleary grin. “Cheers.”

“Sleep well?” It didn’t sound like a question, as Julien had already noticed the faint dark circles under Tommy’s eyes.

“Mm,” He replied while trying to stifle a yawn. “I’ve had better.”

“You should just take my bed next–” Julien caught himself before he could finish the sentence. Face reddening, he coughed loudly to clear his throat. “I mean–”

“You sure you can put up with me for another day?” Tommy teased lightly, trying to ignore the sudden feeling of warmth in his chest.

Julien rolled his eyes, sheepish smile now replaced with an expression of feint annoyance. “On second thought…”

“I’m great company. You’d be missing out.”

“You snore like a plane engine.”

Tommy harrumphed and pulled a face. “You’re still not denying that I’m great company.”

Shaking his head, Julien laughed and walked over to the kitchen. Minutes later, he emerged with two cups and made Tommy scoot over on the couch. He handed Tommy a cup of coffee with a warm smile playing on his lips. “You talk too much.”

They sipped from their cups and fell into an amiable silence.  Tommy absent-mindedly stroked Oli behind its ears. The morning sunlight bathed the room and painted the interior of the flat with a warm golden hue; the light would reflect off specks of dust which floated upwards in tendrils. A few papers, pens and an open notebook lay on the desk beside the typewriter, briefly forgotten by their owner. Unwittingly, Tommy’s gaze roamed the flat before attaching itself to the picture frame beside the balcony, and suddenly he remembered what he’d seen last night.

Perceptive as always, Julien was already opening his mouth. He answered the burning question in Tommy’s mind before the Englishman could look away tactfully.

“My mother, with David as a baby. She’d been very ill for a while.” Julien said in a level voice. He was gazing straight ahead, and briefly it seemed like he had forgotten Tommy’s presence. “She passed away three months ago. I sold her house and moved in here a month later.”

Tommy inclined his head and stared down at the dark liquid in his half-empty cup, condolences lodged in his throat like a lump. His words would inevitably sound unimportant in the face of another man’s grief laid bare. He imagined himself a heavy-handed nurse, tearing fresh bandages off wounds that were still in the midst of repair with cold, unfeeling hands. Instead, he let a tentative hand land lightly on Julien’s shoulder, meekly wishing that it was somehow enough. He thought he could feel fingertips brush lightly against his hand, but when he looked up it was gone.

“It’s fine, I’ve got Oli.” Julien said, his tone suddenly light. He picked up the protesting cat and dangled it in front of his face. When Oli glared back seemingly unenthused, Julien pouted and pulled a face. “He hates me.”

Tommy’s heart was inexplicably enveloped again by another wave of warmth as he gazed at the Frenchman. Just as his mind hardened instinctively, the fortified walls of his heart was dissolving in fragments. A rational voice protested weakly in his mind, and if it had a physical body it was probably stamping its feet in exasperation. He quelled it swiftly.

“I should go look at a few sights later. You should come along.” Tommy offered casually, as he tried to keep his voice from stammering. “It’d help to have you anyway – my French is atrocious.” He cast a tentative sideways glance at Julien, the muscles of his heart straining from his heartbeat.

Julien barely hesitated when he merely nodded back at Tommy. The colour seemed to seep slowly back into his eyes.

 

-

 

With the morning sun beating down on their backs, they made their way towards the River Seine, stopping by a few landmarks along the way. They passed century-old buildings with impassive courtyards and weathered storefronts with inscrutable shop owners. Kissed by sunlight, the cobbles glimmered beneath the wheels of Julien’s bicycle as they rode over them; from afar it would sometimes resemble the shimmering surface of a stream. By mid-afternoon, Tommy had admired the stark and imposing elegance of Notre Dame, dipped the tips of his fingers into the cool water at Fontaine Saint-Michel, and strolled across the Pont des Arts, his shoulders bumping against Julien’s. His hands worked deftly on the dials of his Leica and the persistent clicking of the camera permeated the air around them; soon enough he was already loading a second roll of film into the camera.  

Jardin des Tuileries was already teeming with sun-chasing Parisians when they arrived.  Julien expressed a sigh of contentment as they stretched their legs out on the grass. The Frenchman had gathered a few pastries and sandwiches along the way, and Tommy now nibbled gratefully on them, his hunger sating. The peacefulness of the gardens was occasionally interrupted by the ecstatic voices of children playing around them.

Closing his eyes, Tommy tried to imagine what Paris would have been like during the war in which he had stumbled through, floating like a thoughtless wraith of viscera and bone. He’d maimed, killed, liberated even more ghosts and then somehow, incredulously he’d lived. He had felt like his heart would never know the quiet of peace; the concept was unfathomable when shells, bombs and bullets fell from above – seemingly from Heaven – on his body and soul, the barrages constant and never-ending, sometimes as thick as fog. Even now, he wondered if peace was his when almost every dream still feels like battle, and he’d stumble awake with his ears ringing and his body contorted in fear, as if a shell had exploded right there in his room.

For Layla, he had tried his best. Like when she’d tugged at his sleeve and whined, trying to get closer to the bonfire on Guy Fawkes’s Night. He had stumbled after her reluctantly, his eyes watering, chest tightening from the smoke and flames that reminded him of flamethrowers and smouldering Heinkels. Once, he had brought her to the local pool, where he had fought to restrain every nerve and muscle in his being telling him to jump in, every time she dipped her head below the surface for a few seconds too long.

There were lapses though, more frequently than he’d like. She’d seen the minute tremor of his hands while chopping carrots and potatoes for dinner, felt the rapid acceleration of his breath whenever he shook himself free of another nightmare, while her tiny body lay unbearably unscathed and oblivious within the crook of his arms. Over the years, the thunder in his heart and ears  and the vividness of his recollections would not so much as disappear but fade into the background, like ancient ruins buried in a desert, surfacing into view with the shifting of the sands.

Now, sitting on the soil he’d fought to reclaim twenty years ago, his mind was fraught with sentiment. There were no Panzers, no swastikas, no grey Wehrmacht uniforms in sight. Gone were the war-weary (or maybe just hidden?), save for himself and the former ghost next to him. Peace was now broken by the exuberant screams of children and the frolicking of lovers, rather than by the howling of metal birds in the sky and the monotone chatter of machineguns. Certainly, on the day the war ended he’d kissed Hannah with the most relief he’d felt in years, but try as he might he could not gather a single ounce in his being and bones to feel the elation that he had expected to feel. The price was simply insurmountable. That night, he had gone to bed piss-drunk and his head submerged in a million emotions. His final thought before darkness shrouded him was of numerous nameless young faces, and always among them – to his silent guilt and despair – a quiet French soldier with stormy eyes who had clung on to the pillars of his mind, stubbornly, like a flag caught in a storm.

Tommy’s mind emerged from the fog of the past and drifted back to the present. Eyelids fluttering open, he inclined his head and turned to said former French soldier now, wondering aloud. The words hung like in the air like a provocation or a question. “Do you think it was all worth it?”

Silence greeted him, and Tommy realised why a few seconds later. Julien had fallen asleep with his arm across his eyes, his body a picture of peaceful repose.

 

-

 

They came to a stop just before Tommy’s hotel near the bustling Gare du Nord at dusk. The buildings nearby glowed pink and orange from the setting sun, their windows gleaming in colours of gold and amber. The streets were awash with the sound of a thousand footsteps and the metallic squeaking of bicycles as the city spluttered and rumbled towards the end of another day.

They managed to partake in a bit of small talk, but it soon died down into a thorny silence as they sat uneasily on a nearby bench. A confusing atmosphere stretched out between them – one of both an easy familiarity and a tension that Tommy could not explain. They were close enough that with every breath he could smell Julien’s scent – of the mild citrus soap that he used and the earthiness of the grass they had laid on before. The Frenchman’s ink-stained hands were curled lightly into fists on the tops of his thighs.

It would be too easy to cover the minute distance between them with trembling fingers and trace the fabric of Julien’s sleeve. Or to pull him close and feel Julien’s heart beat against his through warm flesh and clothing, Tommy thought. That single thought seemed to erode everything else in his mind in that moment. It was indubitably frustrating and puzzling to Tommy that he would suddenly yearn to hold another man this much – God and the rest of the world be damned. So conflicted was he in his own thoughts that he hadn’t noticed the arm that Julien had placed imperceptibly around his shoulders, pulling him close and letting his cheek brush the side of Tommy’s head before letting go. It was a subtle signal to the end of their sojourn.

As the Frenchman stood up, Tommy shivered despite of the warm evening weather. “I should go,” Julien said briskly, but look he gave Tommy was tender; it made the Englishman look away.

Tommy inclined his head and made himself stand, his hands in his pockets. “Get home safe.”

“Yes sir,” Julien deadpanned, and Tommy smiled and rolled his eyes despite himself.

Julien clambered on top of his bicycle, but before he could pedal off he was stopped by a pale hand on his arm. He turned and gave Tommy a questioning look.

“I want to– we should go for dinner tomorrow. My treat,” The words fell out of Tommy’s mouth before he had a chance to silently berate himself. He felt as if his heart was slowly sinking into the murky depths of the Seine.

Julien’s face flickered briefly with surprise, before giving the Englishman a small smile. It chased some of the doubt from Tommy’s mind. “That sounds good. I was actually planning to meet some friends tomorrow for a drink after dinner. You should come along for that as well.”

Tommy nodded, his heart fluttering more with relief than of uncertainty. “I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

As Julien pedalled off, Tommy waited until the back of his head had disappeared into the heaving mass of breathing bodies before finally climbing the steps to his hotel, his footsteps light. As he nestled into the cotton pillows of his bed, all he could hear was the sound of his heartbeat, steady and purposeful, lulling him into sleep. His dreams were silent that night.

 

 


	3. Moonlight

 

**28 th of March, 1960**

 

The alarm clock jolted him awake at seven in the morning. Hazy sunlight was already spilling through the tall windows of his room – it used to annoy Hannah that he never slept with the curtains fully closed. Tommy liked the sensation of the morning sun on his skin. Even during the night it comforted him to be able to observe the night sky from his bed, or see slivers of moonlight bathe his room in a muted almost-ethereal glow during those rare cloudless English nights. 

In his grogginess he half expected to see somebody else in the room. Maybe the sound of excited footsteps would announce Layla’s presence outside his door, and she’d burst in with a giggle and launch herself onto him, her hair tickling his face. Maybe he would turn around and see a sleeping form with tumbling blonde hair and her back to him, her skin pale and naked against the sheets. Or he would see the back of a man hunched in concentration over the desk in the corner, the sound of rustling paper and the scratching of pen-nibs filling the air around them. The man would turn around when Tommy mumbled the gibberish words of someone half-asleep, and a gentle smile would grace the man’s face. Quietly, he would come over and run his ink-stained fingers through Tommy’s hair, before leaning in slowly and–

Tommy sat upright with a start, his breath hitching. Shaking his head, he padded over to the bathroom and splashed his face with cold water, before raising his head to scrutinise his fuzzy reflection in the mirror. Even without his glasses he could name the list of imperfections from memory: a slightly crooked nose thanks to an Allied POW driven crazy at a newly-liberated camp, a thinness that his mother had tried and failed to alleviate with cakes and roast dinners (a harsh lesson for her when he’d vomited everything he ate that wasn’t watery beans and thin soup during his first furlough after Dunkirk), and an already defined jaw that was made even sharper from the latter. Everything combined produced an appearance of hawkish aloofness. He’d only started wearing glasses a few years ago – _age,_ the optometrist had announced unprompted in an ominous tone, complete with an expression of sympathy – but they seemed to help in softening his features.

Since childhood, Tommy had always been reserved, but the war and Hannah’s death had added new layers of indifference and apathy to his personality. Certainly, everything he grew to love he still did with a fierce but controlled passion, but the bar of what was deemed normal in life for him had irrevocably shifted. His mother had tried to introduce acquaintances, daughters of friends and the cousins of their daughters to him. When Layla was with his parents, he’d occasionally go to smoky bars with other veterans in a futile attempt to care about the prospect of growing old alone. Every conversation was dull and tiring, their reactions seemingly forced and insincere. His stern features intimidated them, especially during times when he couldn’t be arsed to pretend to feel the slightest bit of interest. It wasn’t that he was unsociable, or missed social cues; he was just so very tired of the endless simpering and looks of pity. So he focused on work and on bettering himself for Layla, and eventually everyone gave up on him.

After brushing his teeth, Tommy dialled the number to his parent’s home.

“ _Hello?”_

“Mam? It’s Tommy.”

He could hear the smile in her voice. “ _About time! How’s Paris? Hope the weather’s lovely and that you’ve taken lots of photos.”_

“It’s lovely here. I’ve taken quite a few and have got some good ones for the article too. It was pissing it down the day before but yesterday was fine.” He briefly remembered the time when he and Julien were lying on the grass, and a feeling of warmth pulsed briefly in his chest. “How’s Layla?”

“ _One minute, let me go and get her_ – _She’s just having breakfast.”_ For a few minutes, all he could hear was the sound of his mother fussing over someone before a voice piped up.

“ _Dad!”_ Layla exclaimed. She sounded as if she was speaking through a mouthful of toast. He could imagine her face clearly, hopelessly cheery in the effortless way little girls do. She’d always been the epitome of a morning person and the complete opposite of her father.    

“Hey sweetheart. Have you been good at Nana and granddad’s?”

“ _Mmhmm! I’ve been studying. Mrs Greene is giving us a maths quiz tomorrow.”_

“Good girl. Remember to help Nana with the dishes.”

He could picture her face turning into a sulk. “ _I will dad. I hope you’re taking lots of photos!”_

“I am, sweetheart. Be good at school ok? Dad will be home soon.”

They spoke animatedly for a few minutes before his mother’s voice crackled through the phone again. “ _I’m sorry Tommy but your father is about to take Layla to school. Do you still want to speak to him for a bit?”_ In the background he heard Layla loudly say her goodbyes to him.

Tommy’s face broke into a smile. “No it’s okay. Tell him that I’ll catch up with him when I get back, and say goodbye to Layla for me. I’ll speak to you soon.”

“ _Please take care of yourself.”_ His mother fussed.

“I will, Mam. Goodbye.”

As the line went dead, Tommy sighed and ran a hand absent-mindedly through his hair. His heart ached slightly for home, but for now he had a day of more shooting and a meeting with a certain Frenchman later on his mind.

 

-

 

Tommy emerged from his hotel in the evening to find Julien already waiting on the same bench they had sat on the night before. They greeted each other wordlessly, sheepish smiles on each other’s faces. They made their way towards the river again with hands in their pockets, the cool and balmy air of the evening settling over Paris like an invisible duvet. Tall ornate streetlights basked the still-bustling sidewalks in a yellow-amber glow; a number of people would surround them like moths to a flame as they traded laughter and cigarette smoke.

They arrived at a brasserie a few blocks away from the river that Julien had taken the liberty to make a reservation at. It was nearly brimming when they arrived, but before long they were brought to a table nestled in a quieter part of the restaurant.

Tommy was first to break the silence between them, his eyebrows raised in mock suspicion. “Did you plan all of this?”

“Of course not, we were just lucky.” Julien replied impassively, but not before Tommy had caught the flicker of a knowing grin on his face.

An hour later, they had scarfed down their meals and were nearly three-quarters through a bottle of Merlot, their faces flushed from the tipple. Tommy did most of the talking as Julien was content to just listen, his eyes gleaming with amusement whenever Tommy had a wistful moan about Layla’s mischief. The wine made Tommy’s words drip with more sarcasm than usual, even if he did so unconsciously, but Julien seemed to find it hilarious. Occasionally, Tommy would find himself staring at Julien across the table and remember the daydream he had that morning. Their gaze would suddenly meet, and Tommy would avert his eyes in mild panic, the colour rising like mercury in his cheeks. Tommy was beginning to wonder if Julien thought him strange, but fortunately there was no mention of it even if the Frenchman was aware.

They managed to hold it together enough to avoid stumbling ungracefully from the restaurant, laughter ingrained in the lines of their faces. The two ambled leisurely along the Seine to their next destination – a bar near Le Marais where a few of Julien’s friends from his time in the army were gathered. The moon peeked serenely at them through smoke-like clouds, occasionally casting reflections that gleamed like silver on the river’s surface. A few small boats can be seen anchored near the banks, bobbing gently in the evening breeze that also sought to ruffle their hair and the skirts of giggling women. For a long time Tommy wished for a camera that could capture what his eyes had laid upon that night:  Julien standing like a statue made of marble beneath a moonlit sky, his eyes glowing like burning embers of coal and the collar of his jacket upturned against the breeze.

Later that night, Tommy found himself surrounded by raucous laughter and foreign voices in an ancient-looking bar. His palms have stopped sweating as tension gradually seeped out of his body. Glasses of unidentifiable booze were pushed into his hands by eager, friendly strangers with the same war-weary faces and names he’d already forgotten. Often, he would vaguely notice the watchful gaze of Julien on him and tip his glass in response, a dreamy smile on his face. The din soon became a hazy buzz in his ear, and the faces a blur as Tommy let his heart and mind turn numb, relishing the inability to feel the passing of time.

Julien was now deep in conversation with a woman that the Frenchman had introduced to him earlier on, but Tommy had forgotten about her until now. She had long brown tresses and a melodic voice that dripped from lips painted a deep red. Occasionally, she would arch her brows and level a look of mild curiosity at him, her slim fingers caressing the stem of her wine glass in a contemplative manner. Tommy detested her already. Brows furrowing, he took more frequent sips of his drink in a bid to ignore their conversation and tried to disregard the creeping tightness in his chest.

Tommy’s restraint did not last long. When his gaze reluctantly fell on them again, the woman’s face was inches away from Julien, and her pale slim hand had moved to cover Julien’s hand on the table. Before Tommy could think he’d pushed his chair back and stood with an abruptness that drew several stares. His legs took him out of the bar and into the night, where he forced his lungs to expand with hungry breaths to alleviate the angry constriction in his torso. Tommy reached into his pocket for the single cigarette he’d kept out of habit and lit it with fumbling hands. Leaning his head against the wall, he watched the tendrils of smoke rise through the air and disappear into the night, silently half-wishing that he could do the same.  

The door to the bar opened and a waft of noise escaped from inside, before fading again as it closed. Tommy vaguely registered a familiar presence next to him but did not make a move to acknowledge it. It was Julien who spoke first, his voice quiet and layered with concern.

“Tommy?”

Tommy replied almost immediately as he fought to keep his voice casual. “You should take her home.” He did not wait for Julien’s response before he continued on, his eyes looking straight ahead. “You’ve slept with her before, haven’t you?”

Silence was the only answer Tommy needed. The cigarette did nothing to help tame the emotions that were running amok in his mind. He began to ramble again. “What’re you waiting for? She’s clearly into you, and she’s quite a catch–“

“It’s not like that. She knows the right words to say, but that’s all it is.” Julien cut in quietly, anger simmering in his voice to Tommy’s faint surprise. “People like her never stay. So there’s no fucking point.”

They fell silent for a brief minute, the walled-off laughter from inside the bar the only noise in their midst. Tommy could feel his nerves start to unravel as he unclenched the fists he had been holding stiffly by his side.

When Tommy finally spoke again, his voice did not sound like his own. “I’m sorry. I just want you to find– “

“–I have.” The seconds seem to tick pass like minutes before Julien opened his mouth again, his eyes dark and expression inscrutable as he regarded the confused look on Tommy’s face. He spoke with a voice just barely above a whisper. “I _have_ found somebody.”

Tommy’s mouth fell open slightly as the words sank in like breezeblocks. The look Julien gave him was explanation enough. The Englishman tore his gaze away, desperately looking at anything other than the man beside him. Taking another sharp urgent drag of his cigarette, he wished for a hole to suddenly open up in the ground beneath and consume him – anything to submerge the growing ball of fire gnawing at his chest. He felt a cool hand touch the side of his face, fingers tracing his cheek softly, as if aware of the conflict in Tommy’s heart. He wrenched himself away from the touch without thinking, the too-brief sensation already carving a mark down his cheek that only his eyes could see.

“I– I need another drink.” Tommy pushed past the Frenchman to stumble back inside, forcing his way through the heaving mass of people. Mechanically, he lifted measures of acrid golden liquid into his mouth with trembling hands, to the quiet trepidation of the barman. The ringing in his ears was back. As the world whirled then stilled around him, Tommy let himself drown in the roar in his ears and the silence of his numbly bewildered heart.

 

-

 

He found Julien later on a bench facing the Seine, after he’d emptied the contents of his stomach over the railing and onto the banks. It might’ve been purely by chance, but the Frenchman’s eyes did not indicate any hint of surprise at Tommy’s presence. Tommy knew it was Julien even in the dark, from the weight of his steady gaze and the outline of his hair that shone dimly under the light of a dusky moon. The sight would’ve almost made him smile, if not for the fact that his mind felt like it was being pulled apart at the seams. They sat in stillness for a long while, the air around them and their proximity to each other an oppressive blanket as neither of them dared to breathe. Eventually Tommy’s fragmented, muddled mess of a mind spoke for him.

“You didn’t have to wait for me.”

Julien was silent. The Frenchman seemed like he was a million miles away. Tommy rambled on clumsily, his words slurred and voice a garbled mess. This time his eyes were draining themselves.

“I can’t. I can’t do this... I can’t give you what you want. I just– it’s wrong, Julien. Fuck–”

His voice trailed off. A cool hand reached out to cup the back of his neck and lingered there for a brief second, before guiding Tommy’s torso down to lie across the bench. Another hand gently took his wet glasses off his face. He lay there with his eyes squeezed shut and his face burrowed into Julien’s lap, the shame from his eyes staining the fabric of Julien’s trouser leg. As the quiet of the night settled into a cocoon around them, Tommy felt as if his body was dissolving and melting through the gaps of the bench, before finally pooling into a grey puddle on the ground beneath them.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> According to wikipedia: 'Of the tens of thousands of French soldiers evacuated from Dunkirk in June 1940, only about 3,000 chose to continue the fight by joining de Gaulle's Free French army in London. Three-quarters of French servicemen in Britain requested repatriation.'


End file.
